How I Became A Mother

By surprise. At the age of 11.

You might say that I was raised with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. My wishes were not just satisfied, but anticipated in advance.

Even though my parents divorced when I was just a toddler and my Mom had a sole custody of me, She gave me everything and more. In a sense, She tried to raise me in Her image.

Since my Mom was extra-ordinary it’s not a surprise that She shaped me into a child-prodigy. I was reading newspapers effortlessly at 5. I’ve done so well at school that I routinely received two week vacations so my classmates could catch up without me around. (Apparently, I’ve been also a smart aleck.)

Long story short, I was an unusual kid. Smarter than my peers, I couldn’t relate to them and had no friends. I had toys. I had books. I had many adult friends. I had any material goods a kid could dream of, but I knew what loneliness is. It didn’t bother me: if anything, it made me reflective. I had a full life without the company of other kids. I was well-read, well-traveled and well-entertained. My Mom did everything first class, including social life. During dinners She hosted I met legends of the time. All of it sounds so great it’s almost boring, isn’t it?

It really was that great, except I was only 11. When I was eleven, my Mom had Her first, major bout with depression. The lights went off in the house. The door bell wasn’t answered and neither was the phone. The staff was discharged. There was total silence. There was hardly any food. And I was just a kid. I didn’t know what depression is. In my kid’s mind reaching out for help would humiliate my Mother. Not reaching out for help, meant I’d have to become Her mother. And I rose to the occasion, after all I’ve had a super-Mom as example.

Few months later the clouds have lifted. Life resumed, but I’ve never been a kid, again.

We’ve been through amazing heights together, heights most people couldn’t imagine. (Yes, you should be envious because if life consists of highlights, 90% of mine were given to me by my Mom.) We’ve been also through lows so low you ought to be glad not to know. (Yes, it occurred to me that my Mom could have been bipolar, but knowing the course of our life together, it is more likely that Hers was a normal reaction to a traumatic life.)

We’ve been each other’s best friends. The power differential between my Mother and I remained fluid since I was 11 until Her death. Sometimes She was the Mother, more often than not, I was.

I loved my Mother differently. I idolized Her. I put Her on a pedestal. She was always larger than life. I never had any hope of becoming like her. She was magical. In comparison with Her, I’m definitely pedestrian.

But She had another side that was well-hidden from public view.

In public She was self-confident, powerful, authoritative, knowledgeable, glamorous, witty, idealistic and fun. Those who knew Her appreciated Her for being a loyal friend, for Her integrity, caring, compassion and generosity. Everyone who knew Her adored Her. Even animals — of all kinds — were drawn to Her.

In private, She was vulnerable and painfully insecure. Impractical. Helpless. Lost.… Nobody knew that. She needed me. She needed taking care of. I admired Her power. I was honored that She trusted me with Her vulnerability.

I took Her passing very hard. I didn’t recover, yet. I don’t think I ever will. While trying to gain perspective, creating an image that would express Her spirit, the image of a flower (Bird Of Paradise) came to my mind and stuck. Like a Bird Of Paradise, my Mom wasn’t like other moms or other people, for that matter. She was original and unique. You might say that every superlative applied to Her: She was better than other people. She always stood out. She wasn’t intimidated by anyone or anything. But She was never truly understood, recognized for whom She was, or given credit for all the good She did for so many.

She wasn’t afraid to stand alone against the world. Perhaps one time She was. Before She surrendered to cancer, She asked me if I would come with Her…. I betrayed Her. I said, no.

My Mom was — and is! — the love of my life. It wasn’t a simple or an easy love. It was at times ambivalent and challenging. But it was the kind of love that transcended time, space, life and death.

I never wanted a child of my own. I never wanted to be a mother. I’m not. I was afraid that I also could “break” at some point and force a child to become my parent. I didn’t want another kid to feel as inadequate as I did.

To those of you who follow my writing and know how much I still mourn the loss of my Mom: I hurt so much because I lost both, my Mom AND my child, simultaneously.